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Dear Diary,
I sit here counting minutes, counting seconds, counting moments, and I know my count wouldn’t reach to triple digits. I do not possess the power to stop the slipping sand, the changing shadows, and the intricacies of time.
I have swallowed 16 sleeping pills diary, in full attendance and it is a conscious decision. A conscious decision I might begin to regret some seconds later, but I should not, because regret is just that- regret, and it can never reverse such big impromptu decisions.
I’ve understood life diary (isn’t it funny how I call you, an inanimate writing tool ‘diary’, as if you were a real person). Nearly all my life I have heard people- old and young, stupid and wise, alive and alive- describing life, trying to decipher this code that a certain God (which one?!!) has designed. I’ve had reassurances, stupid remarks, and unbearable taunts being directed towards Him, the Almighty. Wise men say do something worthwhile with your life. Funny ones say laugh and keep others happy. Workaholics say work; teachers say teach; artists say discover; doctors say save; and wretched ones like me say loot. Loot whatever you find, for you really wouldn’t find much, and the things you do find, are really yours to keep.
Anyway, back to how I’ve understood life, and why I’ve decided to end mine, at 52 years of age.
I cannot do everything. I am a mere spectacle, a pawn that he very cleverly designed, to play whatever shit role I’m supposed to play and then go away. Shakespeare said that the world is a stage, and all men must play their parts, and he was darn right in saying so; but I refuse. My dignity has refused to play the part of a lonely old man; I do not want a second childhood to my story.
Do you know, diary, that more than flowers, I like the initial stage of blooming buds? They give a weird sense of hope and joy to me, because I can’t see them as approaching their end, but rather striking a beginning and it makes me very mad when those buds grow up into those big wards of petals that make me sneeze and attract those disastrous insects.
I cannot do everything, diary. As I feel the effect of 16 pumps of poison slowly oozing and mixing into my blood, and see my handwriting getting messier, I really do feel that I cannot do everything, and so I cannot do anything.
I refuse to be part of a big film, the biggest film actually, that some director has chosen for me. My ego is much bigger than those who think they are ‘destined’ for their characters. I want to leave this world with my integrity intact, with my hopes high and I want people to say, “Mr. Jones chose to take his life away”. Chose to.
I will be the element that fails His Big Master Plan, that dissolves this Grand Play into nothingness, and it makes me happy.
I finally can do something. Something big enough to change everything and I die a solemn

(I think it is safe to say that Mr. Jones dies before completing his entry and also to say that this purely a work of fiction. I am very much happy with God, and my part in His master plan. Mr. Jones, a lonely man, dies an even lonelier and sadder death. Don’t consider yourself a mere spectacle; you are the hero to your film.)

I am so excited to be nominated for the versatile blogger award! My first nomination! I started this blog almost a month ago, on January 19, and to receive an award nomination so early has been extremely overwhelming.

It took me almost a complete year to finally muster up the courage to start my blog. I was so scared that nobody would like what a 17 year old like me would write, and boy was I proved wrong. I read like a hundred WordPress posts every day. It took me a long time to finally understand how things work here at WordPress, and here I am.

I listen to all kinds of music; I don’t have any specific favourite genre. As long as it is hummable, and can evoke something inside of me, I am good.

My favourite author will forever be J.K Rowling. Her writing is magical to me, just like her stories. No author has ever come close to her for me. I get annoyed when people compare mediocre writers with her.

I am obsessed with doing things in a weirdly planned way. If I decide my life to go a certain way, and if by chance it does not, I go crazy trying to keep everything in control.

I hate making mistakes. Even small ones haunt me for years.

I sometimes go in a complete control freak mode. Everybody should listen to what I want to say, and do exactly like I want them to do. I am trying to slowly (very slowly) change that.

I want to do full time social service at some point in my life. I have not decided how, and when, and what. But I know I will do it someday.

I am supposed to nominate 15 other blogs for this award now. However, I don’t know so many versatile bloggers yet so I’ll go ahead with the few ones I feel deserve this award-

Writing is my love. Each syllable, each paragraph, each essay has been nothing but pure enjoyment. For years now, I have watched a beautiful process through my eyes , my ink making cursive patterns on paper in the dim lights, at the quite of night, evolving into words I eventually tweak at some places, resulting in either a piece I am proud of or I eventually tear.

I have always loved writing, but I recognised it as a passion only in second grade. We were to write an essay on ‘my mother’, a very unoriginal and common topic during the time. I remember writing an unusually long and good essay for a second grader. The teacher liked it so much that she passed it on to many other English teachers of my school, and I was a star at school that day. When my mother read it, she was extremely happy and told about it to everyone who would hear (just one of those embarrassing things that parents do). That was my first success as a writer, my best one, the one I remember most vividly.

When there is success, there is failure too. I was in seventh grade (or was it sixth?) and was required to make a speech on good habits. I prepared the speech one day in advance, considering it to be reasonably good. I was in for a rude shock, when everybody complained that my speech was too ‘simple’ and more ‘complicated’ words were expected of me (yes, someone actually said that to me). “I write for myself”, I proclaimed arrogantly at home. It was true. Every good piece has given me an inner sense of achievement. The poems, the articles, the various thoughts and emotions I myself invented. My words have been alive for me. I have formed them, and I have given them meaning.

But can I say, that now, after so many years, I only do write for myself? A few years ago, I was content with showing my writing to a few close people. Eventually, I became unhappy with myself. What do I write for? Does anyone care about MY words specifically? I knew the answer already. Nobody will ever miss my writing the way I do. People will read it, smile, appreciate and then forget.

One of the many reasons I started this blog was that I want to be motivated to write more, to write better and to be consistent. This, however, gradually becomes hard for me, as proved by experiences in the past. I am hoping that writing here at WordPress, accepting the criticism of this community and working towards eliminating it, will heal the dissatisfaction embedded deep inside of me.

People still don’t care about my words, but I am working on it. I hope that through this blog, my opinion and my words will matter again, to other people, but most importantly to me.

I do not know how consistent I’ll be with this blog. I do not know how efficiently I can manage my school work and this blog. I do not know if I’ll ever have any loyal followers. But I will try, and hope, and steadily go ahead.

I sometimes wished I had kept a copy of that essay from second grade, or of that disastrous speech, my first success and my first real failure. Many more will come, but these will be my favourites. My first battle scars.